Chapter 2
For all of his admirable qualities as a pilot, Shawn Kestrel’s parking jobs left a lot to be desired. Granted, Sylvia’s Delight was inside the hangar and away from the oppressive heat of Minos’s twin suns, but just barely so. The hangar’s large clamshell doors wrapped around the stern of the Mark-IV like a tight fitting glove, leaving little room to maneuver around the craft. The vessel was also sitting off kilter to the centerline of the hangar, making it impossible to use the structures built-in hydraulic lift that was needed to heft the stricken craft and repair the damaged strut assembly. With their first priority clearly laid out before them, the two men set about moving the wounded craft into her proper position—not that they had the money or the parts to repair her when the time came to do so.
Twenty minutes later, with the Mark-IV backed completely out of the hangar, Shawn sat at the controls in the air conditioned command deck of the ship. Inside the cockpit—a space just large enough for the two pilot’s seats to sit side-by-side—he nursed the remaining semi-operational engine as he attempted to line up with the center of the hangar. With his left hand hovering over the throttle controls, he was a master at tasking his ship to do exactly as he wished—so long as the vessel was actually capable of the requested maneuvers, which neither he nor Trent were sure it was currently able to do.
Outside of the large, wraparound view port he could see Trent methodically waving his hands over his shoulders as he visually guided Shawn into the hangar. Even from this high up, the thick bead of sweat on Trent’s face was apparent. Thankfully, within a few steps he would pass from the blistering heat of the two suns into the welcoming shade of the hangar. Shawn felt a twinge of guilt as the cool breeze of the internal air conditioner wafted passed his face, but let the feeling pass just as quickly as he turned his attention back to his controls.
Looking to the engine status display, he could see the computer rendered diagram of the inoperative starboard engine sitting lifeless, its centermost impellor unmoving and mocking him as the port engine whined under the strain of pushing the ship forward. Likewise, the soft voice of the computer was judicious enough to remind him of the state of the overtaxed engine every fifteen seconds. Neither of those reports were helping his frustrations any, so he quickly switched off both the monitor and the computers voice output. Trying to relax, he inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly.
Finding a modicum of calmness, he opened his eyes and glimpsed down to verify the internal guidance beam was still locked on the centerline of the hangar. Just as he did so, there was a reverberating thump from somewhere deep within the bowls of the ship. The Mark-IV immediately shifted up ten degrees and began to drift starboard. Shawn felt another thump as the computer compensated in an attempted to right itself—apparently only marginally successful, based on the five degree list the ship now displayed. A quick check of the computer confirmed exactly what Shawn thought the problem was, but also gave him a new one to be concerned about: one of the hover thrusters was fluctuating and would soon fail. If that happened, the remaining thrusters wouldn’t be able to hold the craft aloft. A small light on the right of the control panel illuminated, informing Shawn that the computer wished to speak to him. He could only image what kind of berating it would give him over their current condition.
So much for remaining calm.
Outside the craft, Trent continued waiving Shawn into the hangar despite the look of concern he gave the sputtering thruster. Trent knew that if they didn’t get the ship in the right spot now, they might not get another chance. From above, Shawn watched as Trent leaned to the right, staring disapprovingly at the half extended strut that was probably leaking fluid all over the hangar floor. Trent shook his head in disgust, then directed his full attention to making sure the ship was still centered. The ventral thruster was failing fast, causing Sylvia’s Delight to dip down and drag the starboard strut across the hangar floor, which in turn caused a jarring squeal that echoed off the hangar walls.
Trent threw his arms up, waving them back and forth rapidly over his head in the universal sign for the captain to stop his forward momentum. Shawn only hoped the ship was where they needed it to be as he throttled back on the thrusters. The ship slowly came to a halt precisely over the predefined center of the building, then began to drift toward the hangar floor. With one bad strut, the ship listed several feet to port, putting the ship off kilter as the remaining three pads made solid contact. Once Shawn was satisfied the ship was immobile, he began shutting down all of the thrusters and internal systems. When the final computer powered down a few moments later, and the drone of the engines spun down to near silence, he opened the small hatch aft of the control deck and exited the ship.
The two men walked towards the damaged landing gear and began inspecting the area. As soon as Trent caught sight of the full extent of the damage, he let out an exasperated sigh. The entire cylindrical strut, which extended out from the underside of the vessel, was coated in a film of viscous black grease.
“Looks like the internal seals went out,” he said as he kneeled and wiped a finger across the struts otherwise smooth surface, scooping up a gob of the dark material and rubbing it between his finger and thumb. “We’ve got a spare in the back I can slap on. It should do the trick.”
“It’s nice to know we have parts to fix something around here.”
Trent nodded in agreement. “It won’t help her fly, but at least she’ll be level.”
“How much time?”
Trent rocked his head from side to side as he contemplated the answer. “We’ll need to put the ship up on her mag-jacks, but it won’t take much longer than that. Two hours, I’d say. Maybe a little more to get it all squared away.”
“Good,” Shawn replied with a nod and leaned down next to his mechanic. “What about the gauges? I had to fly her in by feel alone. I’m not getting anything from the instrument panel at all.”
Trent knew that there was nothing worse for a pilot than flying blind. “It’s probably electrical. You know how this damn sand can muck up things.” Trent waved a hand contemptuously at the distant beach beyond the hangar, causing some strut grease to fling off of his fingers and land near Shawn’s feet. “Sorry.”
“Right,” Shawn replied with a soft smile. There was hardly a time when Shawn could remember seeing Trent entirely clean and presentable. However, it’d never bothered him. Trent was as fine a mechanic as Shawn had ever known. If that meant Shawn had to accept Trent as being covered head to toe in grease and filth—which he’d seen on more than one occasion—then so be it. The captain got up and looked from the bow of the Mark-IV to the stern, then back to Trent. He was impatient to get the minor repairs completed, not that it was going to do him any good in the long run. Regardless, anything was preferable to standing around with their hands in his pockets and waiting for a bag of credits to fall from the sky. “Let’s get started.”
Regrettably, forty eight hours later they were only marginally better off than when they’d started. In fact, they’d hit a standstill. The leaking strut seals had been repaired, and Sylvia’s Delight was once again sitting level. However, the electrical gremlin that was affecting the flight instruments was still plaguing the ship—and the duo hadn’t even begun to examine the damaged starboard engine yet.
“What about now?” Trent yelled from the back of the ship. He’d removed several floorboards and two ceiling panels in D’s cargo hold in an attempt to trace the offending electrical short. There were bundles of optic cables and copper cored wires running like spider webs inside the open panels all around him. It was a wonder that Trent knew where they all lead to—most of them, anyway. In his hands, currently beyond sight in the ship’s overhead compartment, he held an optical splicer that never seemed to work as well as it should have. Trent’s extensive training told him that his hands should be clear of the device when the repaired circuits were being tested, but the lack of consistency in the splicer’s operation made that precaution untenab
le.
Sitting in the plush pilot’s seat on the flight deck, Shawn flicked at the internal lighting switch on the control panel in front of him. He was half expecting the switch to illuminate and be bathed in the soft embrace of the overhead fluorescence. Instead, his optimistic view was dashed to pieces when the switch indicator remained unlit. He pressed the intercom button to his left, once more connecting the flight control deck with the cargo hold. “Nope. Nothing yet. Are you sure you know what you’re doing back there?”
“Am I sure, he says,” Trent muttered to himself, not bothering to speak up loud enough for it to register on the intercom. “I got your nothing right here.” He pulled out a thick section of faintly glowing cable from the overhead, found the silvery connector at its end, and then plugged it into a bypass port on the floor. “Okay, let me try something real quick,” Trent finally offered loud enough for the captain to hear.
Shawn heard the shifting of equipment and a few indiscernible grunts. Seconds later, Trent’s voice came back through the intercom. “Alright. Try it again.”
The captain once again reached for the switch. As soon as the circuit became active, Shawn heard a loud thump from somewhere behind him. His eyes moved up in surprise just as the overhead lights flickered on. Shawn, always thankful for small miracles, smiled at the hum of the lights as he turned back to face the microphone. “The lights are finally on. Good job back there.”
Not getting an immediate reply, he slipped out of his chair and exited the control deck. After walking through the passenger lounge and the mid-ships connecting passage where the berthing area was located, he arrived at the cargo hold airlock. If, for whatever reason, the hold became depressurized during space operations, this compartment sealed itself automatically from the vacuum of space. Once he’d made it through the small doorway, he found his mechanic sitting on the cargo deck floor near the starboard side of the hold, stunned and rubbing his forehead vigorously.
“What are you doing sitting on your ass?” Shawn chuckled. “This is no time for a coffee break. We’ve got work to do, you know?”
“I think I got shocked by the live wire I was touching,” Trent replied wearily. “I swear, that blasted computer has had it in for me ever since that bad software flash a few months ago.”
Shawn smiled mischievously. “I keep telling you that the ship didn’t take it personally.”
“You say that, but then I see you smiling like you are right now and I feel that somehow you aren’t being entirely honest with me.” Trent began to scratch at his head briskly. “Are the lights on?”
Shawn nodded. “They probably came on about the same time yours went out. The whole control panel is lit up like its Christmas. Well done.”
“That’s fabulous,” but Trent’s tone was less than thrilled. He looked up at Shawn as if seeing him for the first time. “Are you going to stand there smiling down at me all day, or are you going to help me up?”
The smile on Shawn’s face morphed into a smirk as he reached down and helped Trent to his feet. “I guess we should take a look at that engine now. You up for it?”
“Yeah, I think so. Besides, it’s in about a dozen pieces, so it’s not like you can start it up with my hand stuck inside it.”
Shawn chuckled. “I couldn’t afford to lose you now.”
“Why? Because I’m the only mechanic who knows how to fix this beast?”
“No, because you’re the only person on this whole planet I get along with and who isn’t trying to kill me or get something out of me.”
“I wouldn’t mind getting a paycheck out of you, if it’s all the same.”
“Get my ship in the air and you can have whatever you want.”
Trent gave him a look of contemplation. “Be careful what you say. I have lofty dreams.”
It took a moment for those words to reverberate in Shawn’s mind. His smile faded as he took a quick gander at the open access panels and the exposed wiring. “I did, too. Once, anyway.”
“No kidding,” Trent replied with raised eyebrows. “What happened?”
“Somebody killed them,” he said still glancing around and then finally leveling his eyes back at Trent. The look on the mechanic’s face was anything but jovial. Shawn flashed his friend a warm smile. “Don’t worry about me. Let’s concentrate on D.”
Minutes later both men were standing near a large metal table, the remains of the starboard engine strewn across its surface like the discarded entrails of some techo-beast. More specifically, they were the dissected remnants of the four magnetic stabilizers. Each of the stabilizers, in their normal condition, had the size and shape of a watermelon, but weighed as much as an armful of bricks. Inside each unit was, amongst many smaller components, turbines used for heat dissipation. Two of the stabilizers were cracked from top to bottom, exposing the fragile drive units inside of them. The other two, while externally undamaged, had seized cooling fans, rendering them all but useless. On the floor behind the table, the engines cylindrical cowling had a large chunk taken out of its lower half.
“It still looks to me like you ran into something,” Trent was saying, his hands stuffed into his dirty pockets.
Shawn didn’t bother facing his friend. “For the third time, I didn’t hit anything. Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Hey, I’m not the one who broke the ship.”
“If you want to blame someone, blame those bloody pirates. They put me in the situation in the first place. So just drop it, okay?”
“Fine,” Trent quickly agreed, but his tone told Shawn otherwise.
With his frustrations quickly mounting, Shawn wanted desperately to avoid any further arguments. “Do we have any spares?”
Trent slowly shook his head and tittered. “Let me check.” He turned his head to the pair of shelving units that were the sum of their spare parts. Both of them were completely barren, save for one small cardboard box that was more than likely empty as well. “Gee, skipper. Sorry. Looks like were all out.”
The sarcasm was not lost on Shawn, who only stared blankly at Trent as he waited for a more appropriate answer.
Trent harrumphed and straightened his ball cap as he turned back to the fragmented engine. “I did make a vid-call to Antara Axa, though, and I think we can get some. But, it’ll cost us.”
Of course it will, Shawn thought. It was also no small surprise to him that Jacques De Lorme would have exactly what he needed. Shawn narrowed his eyes at the mechanic. “How much?”
Trent shrugged his shoulders. “Probably more then we have,” his gaze never left the jumble of broken pieces littering the table. “And, by the way, I still think you hit something. You know… just in case I forgot to mention it.”
Shawn backhanded the mechanics shoulder hard enough, he hoped, to leave a sizable bruise. “I said drop it.” He then turned and stormed off towards his office.
As Shawn neared the door, Trent offered up one last remark. “You know, we’re friends. You can tell me if you hit something. I won’t be mad, skipper. Honest.”
The slamming of the office door gave Trent all the answer he needed.
*
The minor jostling of the sleek shuttle as it descended through the atmosphere caused Melissa to stir from her otherwise peaceful slumber. The warm, immensely comfortable padding of her seat crumpled slightly as she moved into an upright position. She’d been dreaming of her father and of the last time they’d been together on their home planet of Thress. As her grogginess quickly wore off, she began to feel the familiar sensation in her stomach that signaled natural gravity was taking control as the shuttle slid toward the surface of the planet. She watched out of the generously wide view port to her right as the blackness of space effortlessly transitioned into a brilliant blue sky.
“We’ll be through the upper cloud layer in just a moment, ma’am,” the pilot’s voice said over the intercom. She looked around at the other passengers, then quickly remembered that she was the only person in the sleek interplanetary tr
ansport. It hadn’t been difficult for her to acquire the shuttle for the trip, considering what she’d done for the owner a few years back. The vehicle, one of the fastest models in Beta Sector, had whisked her from Thress to her destination in only a few days’ time. Of course, a slower vessel would’ve been less conspicuous, but time was no longer on her side.
As the shuttle swooped below the cloud layers, a small chain of islands began to appear on the distant horizon. In the center of them stood an enormous volcano, projecting into the sky and into the thin clouds like a monolithic headstone. Seconds later the shuttle slipped past the imposing feature, entering a circular landing pattern as it waited for an authorization to touch down.
“We’ll be on the ground in less than five minutes, ma’am,” the pilot voiced again. “Make sure you’re buckled in. These islands can have some fairly stout crosswinds.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Melissa verified her seatbelt was secured and looked through the view port once more. She could see the waves braking against yellow sandy beaches, and large blue and purple palm trees gently swaying under the tropical breeze. Breaking his temporary orbit of the tropical island, the pilot slipped past the coast at an altitude of five hundred feet, gliding through a lush valley created by two flanking summits.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, I won’t be able to keep the shuttle here for very long. I hope you’ve arranged for transportation off of the planet once your stay is complete.”
“I’ll manage something,” she replied wistfully.
“Yes, ma’am. I understand. In any case, prepare to touchdown, and welcome to the island of Tericeria.”
*
Shawn wasn’t sure, but he got the distinct impression that the leathery skinned alien on the other end of the vid-call had just insulted his mother. The Temkorian in question, a member of a rather surly race of known interstellar freelancers, seemed to be the quintessential member of his species: demanding, nefarious, and just about the ugliest son of a bitch Shawn had ever seen.
The Army Of Light (Kestrel Saga) Page 3
